Installment #07 – First Panhead

It was 1975 and I was on one of the few major So Cal runs a year – the MMA ride to the outskirts of Fresno.

A year before I had lost my toe to a stretched 1968 Shovelhead, fixed the bike and rode it for another year, but during a night of maintenance noticed that my highly modified frame had busted the main backbone just behind the neck while doing a wheelie on the Santa Barbara pier. I wasn’t even good at wheelies.

The bike was a retired cop machine with a Knucklehead rigid section welded on the rear, then the front down tubes were stretched 4 inches. I ran an 18 over Durfee Girder with an old Sportster drum brake. The rear brake was juice. I had destroyed the fatbobs during the wreck and replaced them with a massive steel Jammer 4-gallon Mustang tank. The bike was black, more black wrinkle and ratty.

This was during the time that Jammer had developed and was making its own frames. I was fortunate enough to get my greasy paws on one. They had a slight rake and were stretched 2 1/2 inches. At the time, these frames were clean as a whistle compared to the old arc welded units. They were heli-arced and cool, so I cleared the frame, a new tank and rear fender. I didn’t run a front fender on the long girder front end. The front wheel was a 21 and the rear one was off a ’68 cop bike. The entire wheel was black. Imagine this scoot, with everything black except the cleared frame, tank and rear fender. The only chrome was on the handlebars, front end and front wheel. I ran an open primary and rebuilt everything on the bike from the bottom end to the wheel bearings. Kenny, another guy and I decided to make the run to this park on the outskirts of Fresno as a break-in cruise.

It was 250 miles from Long Beach and the road slipped under our tires like a cock into a cunt. It felt good. The bike ran like a dream and I enjoyed every mile, er, stroke. We arrived at the run to the same old shit — a big open dusty field full of flies and shit, a couple of trees and a bunch of 50-gallon drums filled up with beer cans and paper plates. There was a big wooden saloon and restaurant on the property, and the whole lousy tamale bordered some sort of ravine or creek. It was a strange place next to a residential neighborhood. No one seemed to leave the compound. It was like riding off the blistering freeway and into an oasis of iron and cold beer. We were mostly concerned about the cops, so we drove off the freeway, rode past security at the gate and didn’t leave until the weekend was over and we jumped on the freeway back to Los Angeles. In the middle of the night, we sat by the fire and told stories about trying to get to town for a part, a new battery or to fix a tire. They told us of being constantly harassed by the cops.

We had arrived in the early afternoon and drank beer by the stream, watching the MMA games and trying to escape the heat in the saloon. Of course we wandered around the camp checking out the bikes. There’s a lot of complaining about fancy custom bikes nowadays. Yet in the mid-’70s, if you had a truly radical bike, you didn’t go on runs. At least nowadays the really nice bikes are roadworthy for the most part.

There were no kids and very few women at these events. Hell, it was just a bunch of guys sitting around a dirt parking lot taking whites and drinking whiskey. As the night wore on, the bonfire grew, fights broke out and the lightweights went to find solace in the pitch darkness next to their motorcycles. There was no ice, so I drank my Jack straight out of the bottle. Hell, if there was ice, there were no cups or glasses. At the time, only lightweights drank mixed drinks. I drank and stood by the fire all night. Kenny was 6 foot, sorta wiry, with dark hair and a long mustache. He liked to smoke dope and pass out. I suppose that wiped out a lot of the clan. Shortly, the crowd at the fire was mostly maniacs and a handful of drunks. It was odd. I didn’t drink much at home, but get me in front of a bonfire at one of these events and everything disappeared but that blazing lumber, the darkness and a bottle of whiskey. I usually stayed up all night, was the first one in the breakfast line, then crashed for a couple of hours.

The next morning, a kid approached me. His name was Jay and he had just built his first bike and rode it out from Connecticut. I was sorta numb and tired and didn’t pay much attention to him until he started telling me how much he wanted to buy my bike and how cool he thought it was. Sure, I thought it was cool, but in a ratty way. He was a short kid, with long hair and crooked teeth, and I liked him. He told me that he didn’t have much money, but he would trade me his Pan. I checked it out and was not impressed. It was an everyday first chop, but it had potential. I had been riding bikes with long front ends for several years and I was keen on building a bob job. This ’48 Pan had a bone stock frame. The front end was an 8-over glide, but I had stock springers at home. The rear fender was flat and chromed and I knew I had a stock rear fender in the garage. I kept looking and pondering. About that time, another guy approached me. He was a seasoned scooter rider and he wanted to trade my chopper for his 3-year-old Super Glide. (To some, it may have seemed like I got screwed in the deal. But remember, the Super Glide was an AMF model. They weren’t popular with the old school, and they weren’t reliable.) My head was fulla cotton balls, whiskey, whites and caffeine. I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was doing. I looked at both bikes and thought to myself, “Self, you hate Super Glides and you could easily make this classic ’48 whole again, so go for it.” I did, even though this kid had no pink slip. In fact, he explained to me that after a decade, Connecticut didn’t have pinks or titles. I gullibly went for it and rode the Panhead home. He threw his leg over the big monster with the 18-over front end, kicked the mill to life and rode to San Francisco then back to Connecticut.

When I got back from Fresno, I loaded it in the back of a truck and took it to the DMV. I handed the girl the signed registration and she asked for the pink. I explained that in Connecticut, after 10 years, no pinks are necessary. As her face grew clouded with doubt and disbelief, I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. She reached for a large red binder and flipped to the DMV regulations for the little New England state. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my heart pounded as she read, then smiled and informed me that it was true. I walked out with a new plate.

Within a week, the bike was a bob job with a stock springer and stock fenders, and a cop solo seat. I left the drag pipes on it and rode it to Hollywood one dark night to party. I had to make a hard right to launch myself onto the freeway. The short springer caused the front pipe to drag severely and the rear wheel was beginning to leave the pavement. I straightened the curve but the pipe still screeched against the pavement. I straightened some more, which took me off the pavement and onto the freeway embankment. With no experience at motocross, I was jamming up this dirt bank, slipping and sliding in the ivy trying to make the curve. I finally made the curve onto the freeway with a rooster tail of dirt and leaves scattering behind me.

Ultimately, I traded the stock springer for an XA springer for more ground clearance, ran nearly stock pipes, rebuilt the engine and installed a later model oil pump, which completely screwed up the oiling to the heads. That scoot was faithful to me for 12 years. Jay and I have remained pals to this day. The last time I saw him he was working at Titan assembling engines.